


Marco Polo

by EngageProtocol (orphan_account)



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/EngageProtocol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan's not the only one who can be unorthodox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marco Polo

Rachel hands him his latte with her usual slightly judgemental eyebrow. He grins at her in return and makes a show of sipping it, drinking it slow.

“Just because you take yours like rocket fuel don’t mean I have to,” he says, taking another swig. “I’ve seen you drink the office coffee, I know you don’t have taste buds.”

Rachel laughs, hitches a hip on his desk and slides a file across to him. 

“We’ve got a case.” He flips the cover on it, sees a run-of-the-mill lowlife staring back, reads Earl Withers.

“What do we like him for?” he asks, reading down the sheet. Robbery, robbery, robbery, arson, robbery. “Seems like small potatoes.” 

Rachel takes another sip of her awful swill and sets it aside, crossing her arms. “He’s violating his parole, and we got a line on him from up in Paris. He’s supposed to be in Virginia, out after six for setting fires.”

She’s all business, but he can see she’s exasperated. “And what’s Deputy Stetson up to?” he asks her, eyeing the closed blinds in Art’s office.

“Making a mess,” Rachel says, reclaiming the file. “Your car or mine?”

“Buy me a drink ‘fore you ask that one next time,” he says, grinning.

Rachel rolls her eyes. “I’m driving.” 

\--

The week is not going quite as Tim had planned. He had, in fact, decided on Tuesday that he’d be in his underwear on the couch by Thursday night instead of where he was, which was sitting in a van, fully clothed.

If anyone had asked him what his favourite part of being a Marshal was, he would probably have said something along the lines of ‘the wide variety of neck tattoos among the local wildlife’ or ‘the busy social calendar’ but he would never have dreamed of saying ‘stakeouts.’

Rachel was a little different. 

“Still awake?” she asks him, taking another sip of the burnt coffee from the 711 down the block.

“I’m not Raylan,” he responds, affronted.

Rachel barks out a laugh, turning back to the dark house they’re parked in front of. “Fair enough. He tries to hide under his hat when he’s sleeping.” 

“I am nothing if not brazen,” he says.

“If you insist.” Rachel’s had a line on him from day one. He almost loves her for it, but it can be infuriating.

“Remind me why we’re sitting outside an empty domicile?” he asks her.

“Divine providence.” Rachel’s starting to get the pinching around her eyes that means she’s ready to put someone on the ground, and boy does he know that feeling. The new guy should really be the one on an arson stakeout.

“I can hear you not complaining, you know.” He tells her, digging under his seat for the last pack of beef jerky.

“Let’s play a game,” she suggests instead, dry as the desert. 

“Is it the Quiet Game? I’m bad at that one.”

“Sometimes I have to remind myself of your credentials.”

Tim’s saved from having to come up with a comeback when there’s a flicker of movement in the bushes by the house. 

“Does this guy think he’s being subtle?” he muses, earning a stifled laugh from Rachel. 

“Makes our job easier.” She checks her gun and reaches for a vest, passing one over to Tim. 

\--

“I’m gonna try it,” he whispers to Rachel, crouching by the back door. 

Rachel’s eyes gleam hard in the darkness. “If you do, I might just shoot you myself!” she hisses at him.

“C’mon, we’re gonna catch him anyway. Who says we can’t have a little fun with it?” He feels the grin stretching across his face and Rachel rolls her eyes so hard he thinks she might hurt herself. 

“I’ll buy you a drink if it works,” he says.

\--

They do it by the book first, warrant in Rachel’s pocket. They enter the dark house quietly, senses on high alert. The problem is that they can’t find him, and there’s a faint smell of gasoline in the air. 

“Jesus, it’s a big house, but how hard can it be to find one guy?” Rachel whispers.

Tim grins at her, lifts an eyebrow.

“No, Tim. NO,” she tells him. He cups his hands around his mouth anyway and yells out “MARCO!” at the top of his lungs.

Rachel’s face promises death as they freeze, waiting for retribution.

“Polo?” comes floating up from under the floorboards and it’s all Tim can do not to gloat.

Earl Withers proves to be more dangerously stupid than even his rap-sheet had indicated; what they find is less a room than a bunker hidden under the house. It happens fast, as it often does. Tim forces the door, Rachel covering him. Withers has a blowtorch in one hand and a crowbar in the other. Still, he looks surprised to see them.

“What the fuck?” he yells, obviously expecting somebody else. He swings the bar at them and Tim ducks under it, slamming his shoulder into his stomach. He goes down like a sack of flour and Tim flips him over so Rachel can cuff him.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he says to her, hauling Withers up as she holsters her gun.

“I can’t believe you passed Glynco,” she retorts, but there’s very little heat behind it.

“What the hell kind of cops are you?” Withers wheezes, hunched over.

“US Marshals,” they say together.

\--

The next morning they arrive at the office at the same time. It’s Art’s day to bring coffee, so it’s good. They congregate in his office, Raylan following close on their heels with dark circles under his eyes.

“Heard you two had an adventure,” he drawls, voice still morning-rough. 

“Why should you get to have all the fun?” Rachel deadpans, claiming her cup. 

  
“Are you competing with Raylan for biggest pain in my ass?” Art chides, handing Tim a sugar packet. 

“Nope. Withers is still alive.” 

Raylan looks like he might argue for a second until Art silences him with an incredulous look. 

“Fair enough,” he acknowledges.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Rachel says into her coffee.

\--

It’s a blissfully uneventful day. Tim does his paperwork and snipes at Raylan, watching Rachel bully people on the phone at the next desk over. At five she places the receiver down with a thunk, an air of finality about her. 

“I’m ready for a drink,” she tells Tim, pointedly. Raylan’s hat is back on his head in a flash.

Rachel likes dive bars where the floors are sticky and the air smells of terrible beer. It’s one of the many things he appreciates about her, along with her pragmatism and tolerance for terrible food. One of the things he does not appreciate is the fact that she kicks his ass at pool every single time. Well, there was that one time he was just drunk enough to beat her, but she’d bought him another shot and ended his streak. 

Rachel lines up her shot, leans over the table and casually pockets the black ball.

Every. Single. Time.

“Sniper in the Rangers, huh?” Says Raylan from where he’s perched on a barstool, hat tipped back on his head. Rachel laughs quietly, racking up another round.

“You play her, see how you like it,” Tim mutters, taking a long pull on his beer. “Anyway, I tackled a man with a blowtorch yesterday, what’s your excuse?”

“C’mon cowboy,” Rachel says. “If you beat me I’ll get the coffee all week.” 

Raylan looks tempted, and Tim hides his snicker in his glass.

“And if I lose?” he asks her, suspicion beginning to bloom on his face.

“Then it’s your coffee run all week. None of that gas station crap, either. I happen to know that Deputy Gutterson is partial to Starbucks.”

“Slander and lies,” Tim responds. “I like the artisanal flavours of Lexington’s own Common Grounds and will accept no substitutes.”

Raylan slides off his barstool and reaches out for the cue, probably against his better judgement. Rachel grins at him with all of her teeth, and Tim sees Raylan blanch as she lets him break. She leans over and starts her play, cornering four of the solids in quick succession. Tim sees the exact moment Raylan realises he’s been hustled, when Rachel shoots lefty and pockets a fifth. She misses the next one, probably out of pity.

Raylan takes a shot, pockets one striped ball and misses a second. His face twists in what might be a grimace. Rachel slams the eight ball home a few shots later.

“Tim’ll have a latte with an extra shot and extra foam. I like the Ethiopian dark roast, no cream.” Raylan stands there stunned for a second, betrayal in his eyes.

“Know your enemy,” she tells him, just a tiny bit smug, rolling the blue chalk over the end of her cue with lazy circles of her fingertips. “I was my sorority’s pool champ three years running.”

“You two played me like a fiddle,” Raylan accuses, pointing. 

“Mmhm,” Tim agrees. He can’t wait to see Raylan’s face on Monday. Common Grounds is full of hipsters. “Make sure you tell them your hat’s ironic.” 

Raylan looks bemused as they devolve into laughing at him outright. Tim considers it revenge for all the stuff he’s pulled over the last few months. 

“I could use another,” Rachel says at last. “It’s my round.” 

“It damn well better be,” Tim hears Raylan mutter. They take a seat at the bar, hazards of the workplace temporarily forgotten. 

“Three of the same,” Rachel orders. They drink in companionable silence, until Tim decides he’s sick of Bluegrass for one night. He heads over to the jukebox, armed with a quarter. Rachel realises too late what he’s up to. She’s too dignified to shriek, but he catches the beer mat she throws at his head when he selects ‘Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy.’ 

“Care for a dance?” 

“I hate you, Gutterson,” she pronounces. 

“Revenge, Deputy Brooks, is best served cold.”

Raylan’s staring at them in that peculiar way of his, not quite judgemental but skirting the edge of it.

“Should I leave you two alone?” he asks, clearly serious. They catch each others’ eye and Rachel smirks close-mouthed at him.

“We plead the fifth,” she says. Raylan obviously can’t tell if she’s kidding and Tim will always, always back her plays. They leave him to his confusion, ordering another round.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” Raylan mutters into his drink. “I’ll live.”

\--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

****


End file.
